Watch Them Die

Soon enough, he told himself. He would get closer to her—much, much closer.

The video was rewinding in Hannah’s VCR.

She took her dinner off the stove and threw it away. The videotape had made her sick. She couldn’t stop shaking. She kept telling herself that it couldn’t have been real.

In fact, the home video seemed eerily familiar. That death scene had already been played out by Tom Berenger and Diane Keaton at the end of Looking for Mr. Goodbar. It was the climax of Richard Brooks’s 1977 film: the strobe light, the couple in the throes of violent sex, him pulling out a knife, then repeatedly stabbing her in the chest. The video’s blond victim even had the same death stare as Diane Keaton in the original movie.

Hannah refilled her wineglass and stared at her blank TV screen. She needed to prove to herself that the tape was just a reenactment, a fake.

She took another gulp of wine, then edged up close to her TV screen. She pressed “Play.” With a hand over her mouth, she forced herself to watch.

Hannah thought she’d catch a false note. But the more she saw, the sicker she felt. It was like studying the Zapruder film. Every frame was real. Wincing, she played the stabbing in slow motion, and it didn’t look fake. She studied the dead woman, and didn’t see her draw a breath or blink.

At the end of the video, Hannah was shaking again.

It didn’t make sense. How could this reenactment of Looking for Mr. Goodbar look so real? More important, who had made the movie, and why?

Whoever had dropped off the video at the store must have been a customer. But Hannah didn’t recognize the woman in the film, and despite her constant scrutiny, she couldn’t make out the killer. He must have edited himself out.

Hannah ejected the tape. She thought about calling the police. Instead, she called Tish, the store manager, at her home.

“Tish, it’s Hannah. Did I wake you?”

“No, I’m up. What’s going on?”

“Well, I took home a video that’s been sitting in the limbo drawer for two weeks. I just looked at it, Tish. I think it’s some kind of snuff film.”

“You’re kidding,” Tish murmured.

“I wish I was,” Hannah said. “In it, this poor woman is stabbed over and over again. And it looks very real. Maybe you could take a look at it, Tish. I think it’s some kind of reenactment of Diane Keaton’s murder in Looking for Mr. Goodbar. Maybe it’s just a hoax and I’m too freaked out right now to see it. You might recognize the woman in the video; I didn’t.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing, Hannah,” her boss said. “Take it from me, I’ve been working in video stores for over ten years. Snuff films are something you read or hear about, urban legend stuff.”

“Well, I wish you’d at least look at this.”

“Okay, I’ll take a gander,” Tish said. “Bring it in tomorrow. I bet it’s somebody’s project for a film class or something. Don’t let it scare you, Hannah. Mellow out. Pour yourself a glass of wine.”

She managed to chuckle. “I’m way ahead of you.”

After Hannah hung up the phone, she studied the unmarked cassette again. Perhaps she’d see it was fake if she looked at the tape just one more time. But she couldn’t. Hell, she didn’t even want the damn thing in her apartment overnight.

Hannah stuffed the cassette in a bag and set it on the kitchen counter. Then she topped off her glass of wine and opened the Melba toast.

Hannah flipped her pillow over, gave it a punch, and turned to look at the luminous digital clock on her nightstand: 2:53 A.M. What had made her think she would fall asleep tonight?

Every time she closed her eyes, she kept seeing that dead woman lying amid the rumpled, bloodstained sheets. Hannah had been tossing and turning for the last two hours.

She finally flung back the covers and climbed out of bed. She wore a T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms. Rubbing her forehead, she staggered toward the bathroom next door. She glanced down the hallway.

And gasped.

A shadowy figure moved at the end of the hallway. For a second, all she saw was a blur, like that faceless killer in the video. It darted away so quickly it might have been a ghost—maybe that young man who had killed himself in this apartment.

Hannah stood paralyzed for a moment. Goose bumps crept over her arms. Her feet grew cold, and she realized the front door must be open. Had someone broken into the apartment? Was he still there?

She stepped in front of Guy’s doorway, instinctively blocking anyone from getting in. The door was closed, but she heard Guy breathing as he slept. Hannah told herself that he was all right.

Another shadow swept across the hallway wall. She was dead certain someone was in her living room.

“I have a gun!” Hannah heard herself say in a loud, shrill voice. Her whole body tingled.

Not a sound. After a minute, Hannah caught her breath, then crept toward the living room. She switched on the light. No one.

The curtains on the window were open a few inches. She noticed the headlights of a car coming down the street, three stories below. Were those the shadows she’d seen?

Hannah checked the front closet. Then she peeked into Guy’s room.

He was sitting up in bed, looking utterly terrified. “Mommy?”

“It’s okay, honey,” she said, still trying to catch her breath. “Just stay there, sweetie. Everything’s all right.”

She poked her head in the bathroom, then returned to the living room. She checked the door. “Oh, shit,” she whispered.

It wasn’t locked. She could have sworn she’d double-locked it earlier in the evening.

But that had been at least three glasses of wine ago. Just last night, she’d resolved to cut back on the chardonnay consumption.

Her heart still racing, Hannah double-locked the door. She glanced around the apartment. Nothing was missing. Nothing had been disturbed. Was she drunk? Maybe she was just a little paranoid after watching that creepy video.

She checked her purse—just where she’d left it, on one of the barstools at the kitchen counter. Inside, her wallet, cash, and credit cards were still there.

“Mom!” Guy cried out. “Mommy, where are you?”

Hannah hurried back to Guy’s room. He was still was sitting up in bed, clutching the bedsheets to his chin. “There was a scream,” he murmured.

Hannah smoothed his disheveled blond hair. Her hand was shaking. “I, um, I just had a nightmare, honey,” she whispered, trying to smile. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

Guy squinted at her. “What did you dream?”

Hannah shrugged. “I can’t remember now. Isn’t that silly?”

Sighing, she sat down on the edge of his bed. She kept having to tell herself that they were all right. Safe.

“Think you can go back to sleep now?” she asked.

Guy yawned, then tugged at the bedsheets. “Could you stay a little longer, and make the choo-choo sound?”

Hannah kissed his cheek. “Okay, just pretend the train is carrying you off to Dreamland.”

She swayed back and forth, rocking the bed ever so slightly. “Listen to the train,” she whispered. Softly she began lulling him to sleep with her rendition of a locomotive. “Choo-choo-choo-choo-choo-choo…”

“Are you still scared?” he muttered sleepily.

“No, I’m okay, honey,” she said, with a nervous laugh.